Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves
by ZabellaCookie
Summary: Harry can't seem to be a good little criminal anymore, Holmes is disturbed and intrigued, and Lestrade is wondering what he did to deserve this. Watson does not approve. Holmes/Watson, Harry/ITS A SURPRISE...Oh yes. SLASH WARNING!


Harry hated prison.

Well, perhaps 'hate' was a slight exaggeration. Harry greatly disliked places such as the one he now occupied alongside the tough, drunken dock workers, and the reluctantly arrested prostitutes. The outdoor holding area, for those the Yard did not have cells for, those whose crimes had been minor, was muddy and stinking, though this didn't bother Harry as much as it clearly bothered the two well-dressed men sitting, possibly unwittingly, on the most desired seat in the house: the central bench.

No matter how much Harry disliked these pens, he did admit they had their uses. It had been simple to get in, simply bungle a street robbery just as Lestrade is walking around the corner, and you'll receive a one-way ticket here until your bail is posted. It had amused Harry watch Lestrade twitch as he put the young man in a place that couldn't possibly hold him for longer than he intended. Harry could see it in the lean detective's face that he knew Harry had a plan, some nefarious scheme that involved his employees, but he just didn't know what.

Harry stretched languidly, hands creeping inconspicuously along the wrought iron railings at his back. They did not begin at the ground, but instead sat perched on a stout brick wall, perhaps as high as Harry's torso. With his feet on the ground, it was a physical impossibility for his hands to touch the wickedly sharp curves of metal adorning the tops of the railings, designed to stop prisoners escaping the holding pen. Harry assumed that, with his heels on the wall, he would be able to get a firm grip on them. Escape route confirmed, and subtly enough that it would not rouse the suspicions of Lestrade's little guards, Harry turned his focus back to his target.

Doctor John Watson, M.D. Army surgeon, now running a private practice in the cesspool of the world, courting 'a pretty young blonde', known associate of the notorious Sherlock Holmes. Awaiting bail for the destruction of public property.

It was not Harry's place to ask questions, he did not need his employer's motivation, only the contents of his bank account. Harry did not care at all that John Watson was a human being: to him he was simply a target painted on a comfortable sum of money, an obstacle to the ability to buy food for the next few months. The only reasons for hesitation would be the sudden attention of the detective of the police. As the doctor and his detective were currently arguing furiously, no doubt about to angrily storm away from each other to take a second to recover their tempers, there should be no trouble from those quarters. And the bobbies put to guard these establishments were hardly the cream of Scotland Yard's crop. Brawls were easy to instigate in these places, one anonymous shout and fists would be flying. There was no reason why this shouldn't be one of the easiest jobs he'd ever undertaken.

At least, this was the theory.

The theory was confined forever to the realm of untried things the moment Watson's bail was posted. Not only had Harry's opening just been slammed shut, he also recognised the expression on Holmes' face. Devotion and lust, shielded by a porcelain mask of propriety and pride. Harry recognised the set of the eyebrows, the self-deprecating twist of the mouth, the defiant ducking of the head, he had held his face in that exact manner scant hours ago. Even now, it was one he could replicate with minimal difficulty, a twist of the features as familiar to him as his mother's smile. And he knew, with terrifying clarity, and a deep, reverberating shock, that he would not be getting paid today. His client would not get his body. He couldn't take this man away from Sherlock Holmes.

He couldn't do it.

He couldn't _fecking_ do it.

Harry's resolve to simply leave the country and head for Ireland was broken within seconds of it being formed. Big Joe was a sweetheart in colourful caravans in the early hours of the morning with whisky in his hand, but Harry held no illusions about the man. He was a nasty piece of work, and worse than that, he was in a bad mood.

"The boys are getting a little...hungry," Joe leered threateningly, and Harry pushed himself off the railings, already regretting what he was about to do. His mother would definitely scold him for being rude and interrupting a friend at work, and his best friend would chide him with that look in her eyes that said 'This is why Devinette is winning, Harry!'. Apparently, he just couldn't do anything right. The bloody French were winning the slow gruelling battle for London's lucrative underworld, and this was the first job Harry had received for months, and it was well-paid too, nearly £250 pounds for a week's work. None of which he'd be receiving, in favour of a man he'd never spoken to.

Still, the twins would be proud, he was sure.

"Joe, ma friend, d'ye mind givin' me 'n Mr. Holmes a little privacy? We got somethin' to discuss."

Harry's voice was pleasant, cheerful even, but his eyes told a different message. His eyes said, 'Don't interfere. He's mine'. Joe got the message, and it would've been troubling if he hadn't, seeing as he'd known Harry since he was seven years old. He backed off, with a 'O' course, Harry,'.

Harry walked up to Holmes with a calculating, almost inquisitive expression, forcing Holmes to back up until they had some privacy. The man wasn't an idiot, he knew that the corners of the place were a blind spot for the bumbling guards, and that other criminals would only take part in a fight if one of the fighters knocked over their drink, wasn't likely to happen in the chillier, more isolated areas. Unbeknownst to Holmes, very few of the men involved here would dare step into a fight involving not only the greatest threat the criminal world had faced, but the most powerful twenty-two year old in London.

"Not that I'm not _eternally grateful_ for avoiding Big Joe's abysmal conversation," drawled Holmes, "but what is it you want from me?"

Harry smiled the smile of a hunter just as the chase starts, and he is confident that, while the hunt will be good, he will win in the end. Holmes was unruffled, and the grin widened.

"I want nothing from you personally, after all the object of my desire does not belong to you no matter how much you covet it. I have no doubt, however," Harry added, enjoying the fractional widening of Holmes' eyes at the wide vocabulary and clipped tones of a middle-class intellectual, coming from a man who moments ago had been addressing a jailyard Ruffian in an almost impenetrable Irish accent. Harry continued, "That you would pine after it once it was gone forever. In fact, I was rather counting on it." The last sentence was underlined by a smile made of razor blades. Harry was enjoying it far too much, and smirked in satisfaction once the famous intellect connected the dots in his speech.

"Watson," breathed Holmes, shock, fear, dread and the approach of cold anger all contained in those syllables.

Harry nodded, conceding to Holmes a victory he clearly didn't want. "Precisely. It is rather uncanny, that mind of yours. Unsettling. No wonder Lestrade hates you so."

Holmes ignored the reference to Harry's favourite Inspector, instead taking two swift steps to Harry, and staring with coal-black eyes into a countenance that didn't reflect at all the danger it's owner was in. "If you _touch_ him—" Holmes snarled, not stupid enough to actually touch the man so respected by waterside toughs.

"Rather a jump of logic," Harry interrupted smoothly. "I never said I would act on this desire. The money is...inconsequential at present." He winced inwardly at the very obvious lie, knowing Holmes would catch it, and no doubt use it to later to manipulate Harry. "This is a warning, and an offer. Now that you know Watson is in danger, you might want to consider hiring some protection."

Holmes raised a brow at Harry's audacity. "You, I presume?"

Harry's predatory expression melted flawlessly into something more playful. "I was told you never presumed anything, Holmes. It appears I was misinformed. Your presumption is, however, correct. For £10 a week, I will protect him to the best of my abilities, and to those of my...assets."

Harry had no doubt Holmes caught the meaning of that last word, but he didn't show it on his face. Never one to let silence consume a good conversation, Harry added, "For that price, I could arrange an unfortunate accident for his little blonde," he said, smiling slightly.

Holmes snorted with laughter despite himself, and replied in good humour. "Yes, yes, alright. If he knows of this weakness, it makes sense to avoid its exploitation."

"That's grand," Harry said, slipping back into his natural accent with a silent sigh of relief, strong Irish lilts overlaying the typical Cockney roughness of London's East End. However proficient a mimic he was, he disliked shaping his voice for too long. He had once taken a job that required him to pretend to be a member of the French aristocracy for six full months, and it took that long again for the natural tilt of his words to return. He was mocked for months, and it was an experience he was wary of repeating.

"It is most disconcerting," commented Holmes, "for you to change your voice twice in the space of five minutes."

Harry shrugged, the feline rise and fall of his shoulders belying a grace only possessed by professional dancers, gymnasts and thieves. "The accents are to throw ye, and get you to listen t'me. For some reason, nobody trusts a business proposition from a gypsy. Can't imagine why."

Holmes gave the hint of a smile and glanced to his feet to disguise any further mirth. Harry grinned fleetingly, glad he was slowly winning the man over. Unlike many people Holmes presumably met in his life, Harry was in no way trying to emulate the detective's methods, nor was he a distraught and desperate client. He had his own profession, which he was good at, and he didn't need to challenge Holmes to prove it to himself. The Yard detectives no doubt stumbled over each other in clumsy attempts to impress him, which is never the best way to become a man's equal.

Harry glanced back at the main area, and bit his lip in half nerves, half anticipation. Men were leering and cracking their knuckles, women were sitting back in the anticipation of a good show. It appeared the prisoners had got fidgety, riled, and were now looking for a target to take it out on. Harry might hold some clout, enough to get a few minutes peace for a business conversation, but the tension surrounding the pair had visibly receded, and now there was no reason they'd be left alone much longer. Harry beckoned Holmes with the air of a man used to being in charge. "They're gettin' restless," Harry said. "I hope you got some good tales to tell, Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes looked at him as if to question his intelligence for daring insinuate his life had been at all dull thus far, and Harry had to take several long steps to catch up to the tall detective, and he laughed softly to himself. To his knowledge, the only man to walk faster than Holmes was his own brother. Ron was over six feet tall, and Harry had to jog to keep up with him most days.

When they approached the bench, Harry growled in the back of his throat at the sight of Gaspard Furet, the rodent of his enemy's camp, perched awkwardly but somehow arrogantly on the bench Holmes had previously occupied. Showing the wisdom of a seasoned dabbler in crime, Holmes sidestepped neatly as Harry elbowed a prostitute none too lightly in order to reach his target. He hated this little bastard. If he didn't know better, he would say Furet had been planted in the prison. But it was more likely that the idiot had been caught selling opium illegally. Again.

"Ye want to move now, Gaspard?" Harry asked softly.

"I-" began Furet, fear beginning to creep into his voice. Harry was hardly known for being charitable after all.

"Too slow," Harry said, in a voice completely unsuited to his situation: the toe was regretful and disappointed, while his face showed a vicious delight in what he was about to do. With the neatness that Molly Weasley had drummed into him from three years old, Harry swept a leg under Furet's knees, and with a flourish, jerked his leg up, throwing the small man arse over elbow straight into the dirt. There was uproarious laughter as the man scrambled up, and Harry smoothly settled himself into the vacated seat. He looked up and met Holmes's eyes, who was looking thoroughly unimpressed at Harry's show of childishness impulsiveness. Harry snorted, and slid over to free up some of the worn wood for the older man. Holmes sat, and said with the expressive tones of one about to regale his audience with an interesting, and hilarious, tale:

"This reminds me of one time in Little Mary's down in Bow..."


End file.
